Chance Encounters
by IggySwitzy
Summary: They met on a rainy night at a downtown bus stop, nothing special or extraordinary; but a little spark is enough to set a house aflame. AU, slightly fluffy lemon


A melody is created from the rhythmic splash of rain on glass, droplets splintering off to trail down the side of the clear slope before bundling together overhead. Although the storm has passed, its remnants continue to pelt the area and make every surface glisten gently. Light flares across the street, and people rush about with umbrellas, or jackets, or anything in hand held over their heads. Two children jump into a puddle nearby, and a dog licks away at the water draining into a man hole. The weather has yet to stop the bustle of downtown; it seems to only paint the skyscrapers and glass structures with wet colors.

But sitting on a bench underneath the shield of the bus stop's short roof is a man typing away at his laptop, blissfully ignorant to the energy surrounding him. His eyes are trained to the screen as his fingers type away viciously, with purpose, thoughts swarming in his head for less than a second before it is processed and then courted onto the keyboard. So consumed by his actions, he fails to notice a single figure approaching him cautiously, gaze locked on him as his is locked on his work. The figure comes closer until it is a man, and then it pauses.

More typing, a loud cough, clearing the throat, some humming, and then the man decides to wring his umbrella before sitting on the opposite edge of the bench. Waylon doesn't realize his presence until the bench tilts under the heavy weight and groans in complaint.

"Oh!" He finally looks up from his laptop. "Hi there. Didn't notice you." Sapphire eyes wide, he stares at the man – older, with his hair styled in a…mohawk? – for an unnecessary amount of time and then, upon realizing the longevity of it, makes some kind of embarrassed, throaty noise and goes back to his laptop, although he refrains from typing.

To his chagrin, the man beside him chuckles at his display. The shuffle of fabric rings loud for a couple of seconds, and then the man is speaking. "You're fine, I noticed how busy you were when I came."

"Yeah," Waylon says and shortly nods, cheeks and neck burning. He tries to find his muse and continue typing, but this feels _awkward_ now. Awkward exchange, awkward impressions, awkward everything, and the relentless drizzle does nothing to muffle the rustling of fabrics that seem to pierce his ears a lot more than anything else had. He inhales deeply and tries to find his place again.

…Nope. Not happening.

Internally groaning, he resigns to saving his document and closing his laptop. Dragging forth the smooth, onyx case, he slides his laptop into its home and zips it closed, securing the strap around his shoulder before resting the case in his lap. The man beside him clears his throat, and Waylon taps the zipper anxiously. The rain drips in a dull melody.

"Do you know when the next bus should be here?" The man asks, admittedly to his surprise. He was just expecting more awkward silence.

"Uh," Waylon rolls back his sleeve to check his wristwatch. The tick marks are small, and he never did invest in a digital clock; after about a minute of squinting at almost unreadable dials, he finally answers, "About ten minutes, give or take. But fifteen is more like it in this weather." Which is seriously a poor excuse for being late, but he doesn't run the buses. Chancing a glance at the man, he catches the end of a tight nod and what he assumed was the man avoiding eye contact.

Awkward silence it is then. He can live with the tension.

Or, he could have, if it were not for the man's growing courage in the art of words.

"I suppose that's fifteen minutes I'll have to work with then," he says and sits up a little straighter, twisting his body so that he can look at Waylon more fully. He holds out his hand. "My name is Eddie, and it is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. …?"

"Park," Waylon says and, hesitantly, grabs the hand presented to him. Warmth envelops him almost immediately, shooting up his arm and radiating out, especially in his stomach but those could be butterfli- He is glad when Eddie drops their hands, and he puts his back in his lap.

The man seems to roll the name around his tongue before practically purring it. "Park, Mr. Park. I guess I did ask for your last name, didn't I?" he flashes Waylon a curt smile, and Waylon returns it with one of his own and a shrug.

"You kinda did," he says and attempts to laugh but stops short, just knowing how rusted it would inevitably sound. Instead, he levels Eddie with a tight-lipped smile (more like a kind grimace, in all honesty). The man doesn't seem to mind his failed efforts, but Waylon gets the feeling that he somehow appreciates them more than if he tried to fake his way through their conversation.

Slightly unnerving as it may be, Waylon has to give the man his credit; he fits the gentlemanly aura cast around him.

From the tailored vest hugging his chest to the way his gestures stink with charm, this Eddie reminds Waylon of taverns and 50s' music, dancing with a glass of whiskey in one hand and a woman in the other. His accent is strange yet captivating in some strange way, making his voice rather unique to listen to. Moving his gaze from the man's clothing to his face, he takes the chance to briefly examine that patch of something on the side of Eddie's face. It had caught his attention earlier but he didn't want to stare when his attention probably was not welcome.

It looks like a collection of scars and scabs by his chin, some larger than others while that all appear grotesque. Whatever happened to earn them seems like one hell of a story; however, by the way Waylon's stomach churn from the sight he isn't sure whether he wants to know or not. As if Eddie would tell him anyway, and they only have a sort amount of time together.

Waylon is pulled back to reality by the lull of said man's voice. "So what do you do for a living, Mr. Park?" he asks with the same lilt as when he said 'Mr. Park' a minute ago.

"I'm a computer software engineer. When you came over I was finishing up a project, actually."

"How long have you been doing this?"

Waylon bites his lower lip and looks up at the water trails above their heads. "About, um, five years now I think? Time kinda flies for me, ha," he laughs sheepishly. "Once I graduated I was thrown into the working world, so it has all been a blitz."

Eddie leans back into a more comfortable position. "What college did you attend?"

"Berkeley."

"Ah."

"Did you attend university?" Waylon asks, and soon regrets asking when Eddie's cheeks turn a rosy red and he barks out a forced chuckle. Eddie, in the most cumbersome fashion, raises his hand to scratch his nape. "I actually did not go to college. It was never in my plans."

Now it was Waylon's turn to say, "Ah." He glances at his watch to check the time. Five more minutes. "No matter," he tilts his head and makes an effort to kindly hold Eddie's stare. "What do you do for a living, if I may ask?"

"I am a seamster," Eddie answers and smiles when Waylon's expression turns blank. As if to emphasize, Eddie refuses to answer without Waylon asking.

That bastard. Waylon swallows around his pride. "As in… a tailor?"

Eddie hums his reply. "I specialize in wedding gowns; however, I am willing to take on other projects when necessary. Embroidery work, fixtures, anything," he grins, "for the right price, of course, since it takes away from me working on gowns."

"So you're pretty confident in your handiwork, huh?"

"Perhaps I could show you one day," Eddie quips and the blush that resurges is enough to make Waylon look away and out at the night sky. There aren't many stars to see due to the city's light, but the irregular twinkles give him something to focus on while his stomach stops its insistent fluttering. The rain has slowed to a calm drizzle here and there, and behind one of the tall buildings to his right he can see the edge of a crescent moon.

No words are exchanged after that, but the air feels less tense and awkward than it had before. Every so often Waylon will glance at Eddie just to see what the man is doing, and usually finds him gazing out just like he is. Light from a nearby streetlamp contours his profile, and the image is something one would expect out of professional photography. As if Eddie isn't really there yet simultaneously present. Waylon quirks an eyebrow but the man isn't paying attention. So he continues to watch the stranger until a tell-tale ray of bright light hits his peripheral. Waylon grabs the strap around his shoulder and moves to stand, but warm fingers wrap around his wrist before he could get far.

Slightly frowning, he looks back at Eddie (not exactly _down_ since the man is much taller than him). "Yes?"

"I just," Eddie pauses, letting his fingers slide from around Waylon's wrist and off his hand. A small, easily ignorable part of him is disappointed with the loss of heat.

Eddie clears his throat and then stands. When he looks back at Waylon, his blue eyes shine in darkness. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Mr. Park."

Waylon nods. "Same to you, uh, Eddie."

ooo

"You gotta be more assertive, man. If you think they're cheating you then do something about it."

"Well, I don't know if I can actually _say_ something to-"

"Of course you can!" The coffee mug that is slammed on the table rattles a few resting spoons and echoes through the rather empty café. A waitress behind the bar glares in their direction, and it is Waylon who cowers under her stare instead of Miles. Not that it was expected, anyway, but a man could hope.

Simmering with energy enhanced by caffeine, the investigative journalist a.k.a. Waylon's best friend downs the rest of his black coffee and twirls the mug in the air, calling for another one while his proud eyes stay on Waylon's. At the center of the table is a stack of loose papers haphazardly thrown into a manila folder, and an array of plates, mugs, and glasses are spread between them. While Waylon's side is considerably less messy (he only has his laptop, food, and a couple of documents), Miles' side is a clusterfuck that reflects his thought process. How no one has complained about it is beyond both of them.

"You can't let them push you over, Way. You're too nice."

"I'm not," he frowns, "I'm not too nice. I'm professional."

Miles' laugh is thunderous. "Professional my ass, you're a teacher's pet. And if you stay that way no one will listen to you. They'll pull things over your head and you won't even notice it," he reaches across the table to squeeze Waylon's shoulder. "But that's why I'm here, to help ya out. Where would you be without me?"

Probably out vacationing but Waylon holds that thought. He's held in place by Miles' hand until a decently frail lady comes by with a steaming carafe of coffee. Miles waves off her offer of sugar and smiles until she turns around to leave. He opens his mouth to continue his advice, but Waylon's attention is elsewhere.

Elsewhere, at the bell ringing above an opening door and a rather familiar man stepping into the café; the man wipes off his shoes on the welcoming mat before approaching the bar. He makes a show of flirting with the waitress during his order, but once it is placed he sits on a stool and looks around the small, almost empty facility. He would have spotted Waylon without any effort.

Following Waylon's stare, it is a matter of seconds for Miles to make out who has claimed his friend's attention.

"Who the hell is that?"

"Mr. Park, what a coincidence!"

"Eddie."

Without even thinking, Waylon starts to pack up his papers and slide his laptop to the corner of the table, eyes only leaving Eddie's when he needed to see what he was doing. Eddie. Yeah, it is really is a coincidence to see him again, but maybe that's a good thing? That rainy night at the bus stop was weeks ago, but for some reason the memory never really left Waylon's mind; the man had imprinted on him, did something to instill a relevancy that Waylon couldn't quite place. But now that Eddie was here, approaching as he stuffs his things away, the notion didn't matter.

Waylon smiles, but across from him Miles is a volcano ready to erupt.

"Way, who is that guy and why is he walking over here as if he were an old pal? Because I've sure as hell never seen him before," Miles says and looks over his shoulder at Eddie, probably glaring.

Before answering, Waylon uses Miles' distraction to file away some of his documents and shove them into the designated corner. It looked chaotic, sure, but at least it was out of the way.

"I asked a question."

"And I have an answer," Waylon sighs. From how long Miles has been holding it, the scowl on his face is practically permanent. He turns to Waylon and stares him down like a hawk until the man flinches, and then coughs in a failed attempt to hide it. Luckily, Eddie has stopped to talk to the waitress or else he would have been welcomed to a table of hostility.

Nervously running a finger along the edge of the table, Waylon says, "We met a couple weeks ago while I was waiting at the bus stop-"

"That doesn't sound creepy at all."

"Because it _wasn't_ ," Waylon snaps, and then clears his throat to rectify the tone. "Anyway, we met and talked for a bit. Nothing special really, he doesn't even know my first name. But his is Eddie, and he is a seamstress."

"He's a tailor?" Miles smirks.

"Who specializes in wedding gowns, yes. That's all I got out of him."

"You're pretty bad at getting information, Way."

Face flushed, he has to catch himself before he yells, "I was _not_ interrogating him-"

"Am I interrupting something? I can come back another time."

Both Waylon and Miles jolt at the voice, too into their conversation to have noticed a certain someone looming over them. Eddie, adorned in another patterned vest, watches them with a slight tilt of his chin, lips forming a smile that is meant to be more polite than genuine.

Waylon scowls at Miles, but his friend just laughs and crosses his arms, leaning back into the cushion in a way that speaks for how entertained he is. Jerk.

Eddie is still standing there, so Waylon holds out a palm and scoots over in the booth. "No, no, we were just…talking," he says, earning another laugh. Waylon pats the space next to him. "You can join us. Miles was just finishing up his work."

"No I wasn't," Miles intervenes, but his argument is futile when Eddie takes Waylon's offer and slides into the booth beside him. Waylon tries to chuckle off the tensing air, yet his face starts to feel funny and he's no longer sure whether he's cringing or smiling. So he stops and shrinks against the velvet cushion, taking his coffee mug as he does and giving the cold drink a taste. Sugary. Cool. The hazelnut does not sit well with his palate, but it does distract him from Miles.

Who, quite frankly, has decided to ignore them both by hunching over his laptop and clicking ferociously. His eyes dart across the screen, eyebrows crinkle, and lips hover over the steaming, black mug. Waylon glances at Eddie to find him staring past Miles and out the window across the café, gaze moving between the cars to people to the sky. From this side Waylon can't see the mesh of scars on his chin and cheek, presenting him with the perfect opportunity to admire how smooth and clean his face looks.

His heart thumps annoyingly and his face warms up nicely, but thank god the waitress arrives in time to bring Eddie his food (an omelet and orange juice, Waylon raises an eyebrow at his choice but doesn't ask).

Waylon goes into cleaning mode again, trying to sort files without touching anything Miles was currently looking at, and once more of the table has been cleared and Eddie's food is safely placed, it is Miles who speaks first.

"Way, I think I found something," he says, voice sounding higher than it usually does. Despite wanting to work up the courage to spark a conversation with Eddie, the lilt in Miles' voice draws Waylon's curiosity. He answers with a short "hm."

Flipping the laptop around to face Waylon (just him, since he angles it away from Eddie), Miles jabs the middle of the screen. "Look at this, right here. I think I've just uncovered something deeper," he says.

On the screen is what Waylon figures to be a copy of a newspaper; two, in fact, since the page to the right of the screen does not continue what is said on the left. At the top of both copies is a shadowy image, the darkness outweighing the light that should have been there. Large, menacing in its older design, a building is displayed with a courtyard beneath it. In bold, capitalized letters each newspaper shot highlights MOUNT MASSIVE ASYLUM. Waylon narrows his eyes at the print below it, but from where he's sitting the words blur together and he can only make out a few. Beside him, Eddie shifts a little closer for a view of the asylum himself.

After another minute, Miles flips the laptop back around and nestles it into his lap before pulling out some of the files Waylon had neatly (sort of) put away. "I just found this," he says around a mouthful of biscuit, "Moun' Mass'e." He swallows. "It's an asylum for the criminally insane, opened in 1967. In the first year that it was opened three scientists, Nazi scientists might I add, were murdered by a patient. I haven't found all of the documents for that long ago, but that wasn't the only case before it closed in 1971."

Resting his chin in his palm with his elbow balancing on the table's side, Waylon asks, "And what does that have to do with anything you've been researching?"

That must have been the winning question, since Miles' eyes brighten and his grin shows his teeth. "In 2009, the asylum was re-opened by no other than _Murkoff Corporation,_ those dickheads I've spent a good two years trying to pin down. With a background full of blood and mystery, this place is goddamn home for these bastards."

"So you think that there's some shady business going on, then?"

"It's not a question of if, but _what_ shady business is going on there," Miles says. He chugs the rest of his coffee and moves to raise the mug for another round, but Waylon swiftly swats at his wrist to keep his hand down. "What?"

"You've had enough already," Waylon hisses. In his peripheral he catches Eddie watching their exchange with slight bewilderment, and now Waylon feels a little guilty. Eddie has no idea what he's just gotten into. Sitting back in his seat, he adjusts himself so that he can see both Eddie and Miles at once. Eddie smiles at him, but again the affection doesn't meet his eyes.

"You must be confused." Waylon says, chuckling.

Finally showing his discomfort, Eddie cuts a piece of his omelet off and holds the fork in front of his face, twirling the utensil slowly. "I'll admit, I have not a clue what you two are talking about."

Miles grunts, and Waylon kicks him under the table before gesturing to the hoard of papers.

"That grumpy man-child over there is an investigative journalist, basically a muckraker, and his name is Miles. I've already told him your name and what you do, so it's all fair game now." He hears something akin to a whine, Miles probably groaning his name, but he ignores it, keeping his eyes on Eddie. "What he just showed me is evidence for a big case he's working on, is all."

"That's confidential, Way," Miles cuts in and then sits up straighter. For the first time since Eddie came to the booth, Miles is staring directly at him. "And it's not just some 'big case.' This is a fucking shit storm I'm preparing to drop on them; their own Hiroshima. These guys deserve the penalty for every crime they've done thrown back into their faces a thousand times over."

Eddie takes a sip of his juice and then nods. "Seems like they have participated in some rather severe crimes, then."

"Yup." Miles crosses his arms again, but it is clear that his energy wasn't even at its peak yet. It builds, gradually, until he is wiggling in his seat with fingers twitching in his lap. He eyes Eddie for a long while, and then in a complete change of heart he whips his laptop back on to the table and pushes it not in front of Waylon but to Eddie. A few clicks off screen, and soon Eddie is being presented with a file cleverly labeled _Murkoff Bullshit._

"This is just basic information you can find on the internet if you look hard enough, so there's nothing too significant in this folder. But it'll give you an idea of how crooked these guys are, so I want you to go through a few files and tell me what you think afterward," Miles says. "Oh, and if you find anything worthwhile let me know. I kinda skimmed through most of those so I could have missed vital information."

Eddie's eyes widen at the sudden lapse of hostility and… _this_ , and he looks at Waylon for guidance but the man simply shrugs. It's not long before an obnoxious sigh from Miles signals that he's done waiting and Eddie needs to start reading before he explodes; like a pro, Eddie takes the command with good humor and shakes his head, hand already working to find the first interesting document.

Ooo

Ever since that fated day at the café, Waylon and Eddie had brushed into each other to the point where they just decided to exchange numbers and arrange little, weekly meetings. For brunch, at the library, at the bus stop where they first met, anywhere they imagined and were both able to go to. Sometimes Miles would suggest a ridiculous setting – such as the ballet studio or intersection between two busy streets – and Waylon couldn't find it in himself to refuse. No matter where, however, he always found Eddie.

So after five months of this ludicrous game, it had begun to feel like something _more,_ something less childish and more adult; something tangible. Despite how physical contact remained restricted to slight brushes and the occasional, accidental, hand holding when one wanted to drag the other someplace different, the pair had developed great communication. Rarely was anything left unsaid, especially with Eddie's insistence that relationships of any kind needed communication to flourish.

It was his pre-modernistic thinking, his traditional values, his charming, good boy grin and attitude that had Waylon almost constantly thinking about him. It was pathetic yet wonderful how Eddie seemed to cross his mind with any reference to the other, be it a classical love song or the sight of a dress. Eddie, with no last name to accompany him; Eddie, with a past he refused to talk about even though he was so adamant about Waylon opening up; Eddie, who could dazzle Waylon with the flick of his wrist and pay no mind to how the younger man seemed to skip beside him.

 _Eddie._

 _Eddie._

Eddie, who has invited Waylon over his house tonight.

His fist hovers over the wooden door in anticipation, neither knocking nor falling to rest at Waylon's side. It just hangs there lifelessly in deep contrast to the surge of anxiety ravaging Waylon's body as he stands there, silent and pale, staring holes through the door and his face lit aflame. Red, he must be a version of a tomato with how tense he is and how much he's holding his breath. _Breathe,_ he has to remind himself, but exhaling feels foreign and he almost chokes on his own breath.

God, he is such a schoolgirl; Miles would be hysterical with how dumb he must look.

Waylon shakes his head to dismiss those thoughts. It is okay if he's…nervous, it just solidifies his feelings toward Eddie, that's all. Feelings that he has yet to confess to himself; present but silent, locked away for him to forget about in the morning, But he feels like a gymnast standing here with his stomach flipping and butterflies taking advantage of his nerves. Heart pounding in his chest, he can practically hear his blood pumping.

 _Breathe._ The command is so much easier said than done. Waylon tries once more to breathe properly yet the function feels much too laborious. Maybe if he passes out Eddie will figure out that he's a wreck and dump him after taking him to the hospital? Waylon's stomach clenches. Okay, okay, that's a bit too radical, and the scenario might actually make the old gentleman cherish him even more. Perhaps Waylon wouldn't mind such a backfire-

"Darling?" Eddie calls, slowly opening the door, and Waylon almost initiates his plan right then and there.

He catches himself before he falls on weak knees. _Breathe._ "Eddie," he says.

The man beams a bright smile at him and Waylon returns it after a moment of short circuiting. Darling. The name is still raw, a tad too feminine for his tastes but it would be a lie to claim that he doesn't enjoy how the endearment rolls off of Eddie's tongue. As if it was sacred and scarce. Eddie side-steps to allow Waylon room to enter, and after a moment of hesitation he finds himself walking into an aroma of mint, cinnamon, and wood.

The house is a small, brick accommodation with perhaps two bedrooms at max. He walks into the kitchen, which cleanliness reminds Waylon of a model home's. Modern cabinets and stainless steel appliances decorate the room with a maroon, silver, and white color scheme. A mahogany table set sits three or four meters from a similar island at the center of the kitchen, and candles are lit along the counter.

Waylon feels slightly out of place surrounded by the rather expensive looking furniture and appliances, but the way Eddie so warmly watches him is enough to keep him from making an excuse to flee. He waits until Eddie has finished locking the door and turning on the porch light before speaking.

"Hey um, thank you for inviting me over," he looks around the kitchen again, "and you said you built this house from the ground up?"

Eddie chuckles at that. "Not literally, no. But I designed the entire house, yes." He gestures the left of Waylon. "You can make yourself comfortable in the living room, if you'd like. I was actually preparing some tea when I heard you knock."

Oh right, he did knock, didn't he? Waylon blushes at the forgotten memory and nods quickly to hide the flush on his cheeks. "I'll go do that," he says sheepishly before turning on his heel to enter the living room.

The scent of cinnamon and wood is stronger here, but not unpleasant. It travels through the room languidly, taking its time to curl around two lamps and a large bookshelf filled with hundreds of books, some with worn covers to convey being read. A flat screen television hangs on the wall with a blue-ray set on the shelf closest to it, but the TV's cord dangles freely off the shelf. A coffee table sits between two sofas, one longer than the other, and an armchair rests not too far from the smaller sofa. All in all, Waylon is taken aback by how Eddie's house, from what he's seen, is modernly furnished; although, the TV not even being plugged in is such an Eddie thing that Waylon smiles nostalgically at it.

Taking a seat at the end of the longer sofa, Waylon is about to cross his legs when he notices that he hasn't taken his shoes off yet. Hurriedly doing that to avoid seeming rude, he places his shoes against the wall and heads back to the couch to find Eddie placing down two cups of tea. Their eyes meet, and Waylon feels like a deer caught in headlights again.

"Hi," he says.

"I made yours a little sweeter than mine," Eddie says and Waylon's eyes are drawn to his scar. "I hope you don't mind."

Waylon shakes his head. "I don't. I actually prefer my tea sweet, so thanks." Taking his place back on the sofa, Waylon knows that he looks rigid. Posture perfect, hands neatly folded in his leg, he doesn't even attempt to cross his legs this time. While Eddie eyes him with an almost goofy, endearingly questionable look, Waylon responds with the kindest tilt of his lips that he can muster.

His heartbeat is thunderous; Waylon fails to swallow the dryness in his throat.

Cutting through Waylon's internal struggle to calm himself, Eddie's voice is silk in the scented air. "Would you like to listen to music?" he asks, already moving to stand but waiting for Waylon to agree before walking over to his…record player. Waylon frowns at it, and for a brief moment his anxiety is broken.

"You still use a record player?" Waylon's tone is borderline incredulous.

Sorting through his stack, as in massive collection, or records, Eddie peers over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow. "What's wrong with that?"

"They're obsolete."

"You sound like a millennial."

The sound that leaves Waylon's throat is a mixture of a cough and laugh. He holds his fist to his mouth and coughs into it, air stinging, until he can breathe without dying. Looking over his hand, Waylon says, "Oh god no, that's an insult. It's just… Nevermind. It's really fascinating that you still use record players. Is that better?"

"I hear a lack of sincerity in your voice, Mr. Park." A click resounds through the room when Eddie presses the record in.

"I thought I told you to call me Waylon, Mr. Whatever-Your-Last-Name-Is," Waylon retorts, lunging back on the couch with his arms crossed. What follows is silence until the song starts up, something old and grainy but with a nice melody. Eddie walks back to the couch, but stops at the table to grab a teacup. He holds it out for Waylon, but pulls his arm back when the man tries to take it.

"What are you-"

"Gluskin," Eddie says barely over a whisper, as if muttering a verse from scripture. Waylon's eyebrows furrow, and then the name hits him. Smirking, Eddie nudges the tea into his hand.

Holding the cup in his palm to keep it from spilling, Waylon watches as Eddie snags his before sitting not too far from him. Blue staring into blue, Waylon is the first to speak. "Gluskin," he repeats in exactly the same way Eddie spoke it.

"Yes, darling," Eddie says. "My name is Eddie Gluskin, Mr. Waylon Park."

"Why didn't you tell me earlier?"

"You never asked."

Waylon bites his cheek and blushes. Yeah, he never did ask, but one would assume that after months of talking to each other… Waylon brings the cup to his lips and inhales the sweet aroma. It radiates through his fingertips, the warmth, and dies only after settling in his chest. He drinks a little and then goes back to cupping the tea, waiting patiently for Eddie to finish drinking his.

The tempo changes into something slower, mysterious, a temptress of sound that flows around them. A song meant to serenade the mind and tell a tale of a broken heart. The woman sings gently and with a passion to set the atmosphere around them. Eddie closes his eyes and does what Waylon did: he inhales deeply, holds it, and then breathes out. The longer they sit in silence, the more the music seems to carry them away. Separately. Waylon finds himself setting his cup back on the coffee table and settling much closer to Eddie, close enough for their shoulders to brush. He looks up at the older man, but his eyes are closed.

What is he doing here? Why did he come? He has no answer, since the reason was not his. Eddie asked, and he came. Here, with their minds in two places while their bodies rest near each other. Eddie finishes his tea and lays the cup next to Waylon's, and Waylon feels his heart skip. He's looking at him, drawing Waylon to stare back into that never ending pool of cerulean, and all Waylon wants to do is drown in it.

"Eddie," he starts, whispers, gaze falling to the hand inching closer to his, the fingers brushing over his. "Why did… why did you want me to come over?"

The answer. Does he want it, can't he already feel it? The tea's warmth radiates in him, but maybe that's not the only thing keeping him warm. Waylon lightly bites his lower lip, and Eddie follows the motion.

"I wanted to see you," Eddie says, but there's something more. Something unsaid.

Waylon takes the bait with a sharp inhale. "Tell me the truth." It is a command, a fragile command that somehow manages to stay intact. His hand is taken by Eddie's, pulling him closer until Waylon is trapped in a warm embrace, pinned to the cushion of the couch by muscular bars. Arms. One wrapped around his waist while the other holds his hand. Waylon's lips part, and again Eddie's gaze follows it.

"Eddie, I," Waylon breathes but stops himself. The heat is suffering, and his heart is swelling. He feels a thumb drawing circles on his palm, gently, coaxing him to breathe properly. "You… Eddie, what do you want?"

His smile is angelic. "I want… you."

A kiss, soft and gentle, pulling Waylon closer as their lips overlap; it is something out of a fairy book, something not to be felt in reality yet it is his to take. Waylon's heart skips, but the warmth from their connection replaces the need. Eddie's lips move against his, calling for more, and Waylon does not deny his want.

He kisses back. He kisses back and hangs on to the sensation that spirals through him. Butterflies and nervousness, all exploding into one moment of stillness. One moment of passion. Waylon has to keep himself from whining when Eddie pulls back, half-lidded eyes gazing down upon him lovingly.

He opens his mouth to speak, but Waylon doesn't want to hear.

This time it is Waylon who initiates the kiss, with welcoming lips and less hesitation. They share each other's breath and Eddie pulls him closer until Waylon is resting on top of him, flush against him. He whispers a "darling" into Waylon's ear and Waylon responds with a tongue licking his bottom lip. Allowing Eddie to dominate, Waylon falls into a slow dance of tongues and lips. They stumble over each other but the dance is intoxicating, invigorating. He scrapes over teeth while Eddie explores his warmth. Together, they reign in the separation that fell upon them.

A hand rests on his lower back and fiddles with the hem of his shirt, causing Waylon to blush stubbornly and, reluctantly, pull away. His lips feel hot and well acknowledged, and the heat stirring in his belly is satisfactory. Looking down from his vantage point above Eddie, Waylon brings his free hand up to cradle Eddie's scars. He has never touched them before; their roughness is new to him.

"How far?"

He can feel himself falling head over heels, tumbling down a path that would be hard to climb back up from. Banging his head on rocks and cutting his skin. He can feel himself drowning in those eyes and not regretting a thing. But he has to _know._

Crawling, the hand splayed on his back weaves its way under his shirt, holding him, trailing light touches along his spine while massaging. Waylon leans into the touch, but Eddie moves him forward, moves him so that their faces are an inch apart. He nuzzles Waylon's nose and Waylon scrunches his face. When the playfulness leaves, and the hand on his back halts, Waylon is stilled by the utter desire in the eyes of the man grounding him.

Eddie leans in, and Waylon prepares for a kiss, but the man's lips fall just short of his own. They kiss his cheek, his temple, ghosting over his forehead to do the same to the other side of his face. Warm and slightly wet, Eddie's lips trail along his chin to kiss down his neck, his collar. Waylon shivers when he feels teeth grate just under his jaw, and then Eddie is taking his chin in his hand and tilting his head down.

"Waylon," he says softly, quietly. "I will go as far as you let me."

And then, they are kissing.

Passion is hidden behind desire, momentarily pushed away to accomplish what both men are searching for. A sensation. A connection. Waylon's heart is soaring and he can feel Eddie's too. The song continues, playing on with abandon as Eddie pries off Waylon's shirt. The cold hits his bare back, making him shiver, but soon Eddie's hands are on him and the chill is forgotten.

He rocks on Eddie until he hears the man sucking in breath between his teeth, then holds Eddie by his shoulders as he angles his hips and dives back in for more kisses. How lovely tea tastes on the tongue of the one who holds his affection, the one with his arms wrapped around Waylon's hips and guiding his rotation.

He's hot, the heat building with no end. To Waylon's dismay Eddie pulls back from the kiss, but before he can pout those lips are on his collar and biting, tongue flicking over the aching area only to move somewhere else and do the same. Waylon gasps, which serves to earn him a chuckle.

"Eddie," he moans around gritted teeth, and is rewarded with a thrust against him. Waylon's neck burns enthusiastically.

Hands lowering to rest on Waylon's belt loops, Eddie looks up from his position at Waylon's neck and calls, "Yes, darling?"

"C-can we-" His words are stopped by another gasp and heat pools into his belly. Pressing down on the bulge in his pants, Eddie's hand strokes him gingerly, squeezing and rubbing circles over where he suspects the head to be. And _god_ is he accurate.

The bastard doesn't let up even when he says, "Darling, I need you to speak clearly or else I won't be able to help you."

Waylon pushes his hips forward, into Eddie's welcoming palm. "Hurry up," he huffs and plants himself on Eddie's crotch, grinding down on the exceptional source of heat there. He listens as Eddie hums to the tune of the music – a new song, more upbeat than the last but Waylon doesn't care enough to make out the words. Still rubbing Waylon through jeans, the feeling is torture and Waylon knows that Eddie knows it. He bucks into the hand, but Eddie simply ignores his efforts.

"Stop doing that."

"You forgot to say the word, Waylon," Eddie answers and gives Waylon a hard squeeze, eliciting a groan from the man above him. He sneaks a hand just above Waylon's erection and toys with his pant's button, flicking it a few times but refusing to unbutton it. It's too much for Waylon to watch, so instead he glares into Eddie's lustful eyes. Silently, he hopes that this is as much of a tease as it is for him – a rotation of his hip is enough to tell him that it is.

"Eddie I-"

"Just that one word and then you can have it all."

"Damn you," Waylon's bites his lip. "I… Eddie, _please?_ Can you please just…It's torture waiting, so can you please j-just fuck me already?"

The grin on Eddie's lips is smug and dangerous. "If that's what you want, then I shall," he purrs, dragging Waylon down into a kiss while he unbuttons his pants quickly, yanking open the zipper to release some of the pressure off of Waylon. In a matter of seconds, Eddie has Waylon in his hand and the man gasping from the sensation; it has been a while since he was last touched, but in this moment Waylon is elated to have waited.

Eddie strokes Waylon slowly, pumping his hand up and down the shaft and occasionally twirling his thumb around the head. With his free hand Eddie pulls at Waylon's waist, and Waylon does not waste any time following his command. In the midst of having Eddie pump his cock, Waylon somehow manages to slip out of his pants without injury, in turn working to tug off Eddie's shirt. When he gets to his arms, Waylon stares intently.

Eddie raises an eyebrow at him, taking the opportunity to slow things down and circle right under Waylon's soft head. "Is there a problem?"

"I want to take your shirt off," he says, "but that means you'll have to stop."

For a second there, Waylon has to keep himself from erupting in laughter from the deadpan expression Eddie stares at him with. They hold it until Waylon laughs and kisses Eddie on the lips, only stopping when Eddie lets go of him and tosses off his shirt. He goes to settle back in Eddie's lap, but the man holds a palm out to keep him still. Waylon looks at him in confusion. All he receives before Eddie is shuffling out from under him is a promising smile and a command to "lie on your back."

He does so without complaint, rotating around Eddie to lie back on the sofa, surprised to find how _wide_ it was to be able to comfortably stretch out on. He hadn't recognized its size when he first sat down, but now that he's waving his arms to see how much motion it accepts Waylon figures that it isn't too far from a small bed, which is fortunate.

Eddie disappears from his peripheral, but Waylon can still hear him walking over the, lowered, sound of music. He thumbs his cock and marvels at how differently it feels, imaging that it was Eddie's larger, warmer hand touching him again, and a bead a pre-cum slides down his length. Above him he hears a throat clear, and if he wasn't already burning pink then he would have been now from embarrassment.

Waylon stutters awkwardly. "I-I was just um," he loops two fingers under his boxers and pulls them down to his ankles so he can kick them off, "getting rid of those." He wasn't expecting Eddie to believe him, so when the man just nods his head and crawls back on the couch, in his briefs and sporting an endowed hard-on, Waylon only feels excited.

Popping open the clear bottle of lube with his thumb, Eddie devours Waylon with his eyes as he dips three fingers into the substance, making sure to get more than enough on them before setting the bottle aside. He gives Waylon a firm stroke and then spreads his legs apart.

Eddie circles Waylon's entrance with one, wet digit. "You're beautiful, Waylon. A diamond in the flesh." He presses against Waylon until he's in, gently pushing inside while leaning down to kiss Waylon's thighs. "A delicacy to be unwrapped," Waylon grunts when he curls his finger, "and…unwrapped again. And savored."

He thrusts his finger deeper into Waylon as he pushes the next one past his entrance, faster this time, stopping when both are well inside. He waits for Waylon's face to relax, eyeing the sweat beginning to form on his skin that highlights his frailty yet makes him gleam. Eddie's kisses travel higher until he is at the base of Waylon's cock, breathing over it, and then he licks a long strip up the shaft, twirling his tongue under the head.

Waylon jolts at that, moaning and accidentally pushing the fingers deeper. The feeling is foreign, never having had something _inside_ of him, but the pain that accompanies the digits is beginning to hollow. Experimentally, he shifts again, and this time Eddie takes the hint to start stretching.

They create a rhythm, Waylon bucking against the fingers when he's comfortable and Eddie sucking his cock in turn. Little prizes for his cooperation, per se, but neither Waylon nor Eddie fool themselves into thinking that any part of this is unwanted. Waylon melts into the heated licking and sucking while Eddie waits to be inside of the warmth surrounding him. He prods Waylon with a third finger and the younger man moans when it enters, his grimace of pain overwhelmed by the pleasure of Eddie's mouth. Eddie's curls his fingers and suddenly he hits something that makes Waylon see stars.

"Eddie, _fuck_ ," he bites his lip hard enough to bruise, "d-do that. Ah, your… do t-that again."

"You mean _this?_ " Eddie smirks and curls his fingers, pulling back only to press into it again, rubbing the bundle of nerves while he licks along Waylon's cock.

The pleasure is too hot, too fast and fiery that every nerve in Waylon's body seems to tingle with Eddie's actions. He bucks into Eddie's mouth but he isn't allowed too far; he tries to fuck himself on Eddie's fingers but the man his holding his hips in place, keeping him exactly where he wanted him and winding him like a toy. Waylon's moans echo through the room, over the music, and he can feel his release building…building…until it all collapses with Eddie pulling out his fingers and letting Waylon drop out of his mouth.

Waylon pants under him, annoyed, cheeks flushed and hands balling into fists. His voice cracks when he says, "Not even a warning? That's more than evil."

"Call it whatever you want, darling," he catches Waylon's glare, "but I know you'll enjoy this much more than a few fingers."

Air catching in his throat, Waylon watches with wide eyes as Eddie shuffles between his legs and gingerly squeezes his erection. It's a wonder how he's kept from touching it this entire time, but Waylon doesn't have mind to ponder it when the man takes out the lube and pours a generous amount into his hand. Deviously, Eddie keeps eye contact with Waylon as he pulls out his erection and strokes on the lube, making sure to spread it evenly and everywhere. Waylon can't tear his eyes away, and he uses the distraction to lift one of the younger man's legs over his shoulder and wrap the other one around his waist. Wiping off the excess lubrication on the couch cushion, Eddie angles himself at Waylon's entrance.

"Ready?" he asks and gently kneads Waylon's quivering thigh. It takes a moment, but Eddie doesn't miss the tight, anxious nod that Waylon gives him.

The pain is fierce with the first thrust, slow and steady to ease his way in while Waylon grits his teeth and fists the sofa, eyes watering from the consuming heat in his ass. It hurts, hot damn it hurts, and he doesn't have much leverage to latch on to as the assault continues. Despite Eddie's slow pace and gentle, restrained movements, he is still met with resistance, and soon he is leaning forward to press soft kisses on to Waylon's lips.

"Relax, darling. It will start to feel good once this is over," he whispers, but Waylon is more focused on the sound of his voice rather than his words.

It is calming, like open ocean waves and he imagines himself riding its tide as the pain begins to numb and Eddie finally stops moving. Waylon peaks an eye open that he hadn't realized was closed, and sees the form of a man gazing at him with all of the love in the world. Toned stomach and a nicely muscular build, he wonders why no woman has claimed Eddie before him – but maybe Eddie was never interested, and who said he could use the word 'claim'?

Because maybe it is not so inappropriate to use such a word when Eddie starts to move again, owning him, shifting Waylon's body as he thrusts back in slowly. Claimed may not be a stretch from the truth when he kisses Waylon again with a passion unknown, dragging himself deeper as Waylon moans into his mouth. Their tongues tangle to muffle his whines. Eddie stills his hands on Waylon hips to keep him steady and he fucks him slowly, fucks him lovingly, stretching Waylon to accommodate his girth as _claims_ leave their lips.

Darling.

Waylon.

Eddie.

The names twist with the music and only grow louder as Waylon encourages Eddie to do him harder, fuck him like he loves him and _oh_ does Eddie appreciate the commands. He angles his hips until he hits Waylon's sweet spot, and doesn't stop once the man is crying his name and practically screaming.

Below him Waylon reaches for his throbbing cock and pumps it in time with Eddie's thrusts, mouth agape, needy moans falling from his lips as the pressure builds below his stomach. His hand slips on pre-cum and he moans loudly when his palm rubs his head, now putting his attention on pumping and squeezing there.

Eddie adjusts Waylon's legs so that both of them are over his shoulder and pulls almost all the way out before pounding back in, relishing in the sweet sound of skin slapping and heavy breathing.

"I-I'm – _nngh –_ Eddie I'm about t-to," Waylon tries to warn but voice cracks and he ends with another moan, another call for Eddie to push him over the edge and fuck him into oblivion. He can't think. He can't breathe. He squeezes his cock and groans when Eddie slaps his hands away to stroke him himself.

"I know darling," Eddie says but his voice is low and throatier. He sucks in a sharp breath and pulls Waylon as close as he can. "I need you to come for me, love," he coos and thumbs Waylon's head while thrusting into his sweet spot. "You're so warm – Darling, say my name."

"Eddie," Waylon moans, feeling himself near his end but it's just not enough.

"Louder," he groans and pounds into Waylon faster, using his leverage to push as deep as he can. It's so warm, so hot, his heart pounding and lungs constricting until the universe is before his eyes. His sweet, sweet world surrounding one sole person.

"Eddie!"

He squeezes Waylon's cock. "Louder, _Waylon._ "

" _Eddie!"_

The feeling of Waylon constricting around, moaning his name as he arches his back and spills into his hand, is enough to make Eddie see stars himself. He comes into Waylon with eyes clenched tight, thrusting languidly as the world seems to spin and morph around him. Their breaths hang in the air as they come from their high, music playing a melody that matches their tiredness, their release.

Gradually, he works himself up to pull out of Waylon, making a mental note to clean up later but for now, all he wants to do a nestle beside the warm body below him. Placing his legs down on the couch, Eddie crawls into the small space between the backrest and his darling, glad that the man follows his lead and attempts to curl onto his side to accommodate his size.

Wrapping an arm around Eddie's abdomen, Waylon leans his forehead onto his chest and sighs. He plants a kiss there, and then glances up to see Eddie smiling at him. "You know, maybe we should have done this on a bed. I could really go for a nap right now without uh…moving."

He finds Eddie's chuckle to be rich and savory, like the reverb of chocolate. "We can still move into the bedroom if you'd like."

Waylon shakes his head. "Nah…I think I'm fine using you as a pillow," he kisses Eddie's chest, "and there's always next time."

"Next time?"

Heat warms his cheeks, but the afterglow is too wonderful for Waylon to care. "Yes, next time."


End file.
